


How to endure a dreadful internship

by onpage26



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Humor, Library, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onpage26/pseuds/onpage26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>American exchange student works at a Library, fortunately Benedict Cumberbatch needs a book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just your average Tuesday

“Tuesday… seriously needs to be Friday right now,” I mutter to no one in particular. It’s week number three at my internship at the Barbican Branch of the London Library located around the block from the Museum of London. My joy at the prospect of being a savvy international student faded by the end of week one, apparently English people call underwear “pants” and pants “trousers”; really good stuff to know BEFORE you compliment a patron on her pants, and by pants you meant trousers.

Library work isn’t new to me; hence the easy peasy internship while I study English Literature for my Master’s in High school English Education. In fact the BA I have in Literature should have more than prepared me for a semester or two abroad in London to study English Literature – nope. The whole accent/slang barrier going against my (apparently garish) American accent/slang hinders the process. Not a big deal at UCL but at the Library… it becomes more noticeable.

A tall thin dark haired man accompanied by a shorter man with blond and grey peppered hair approach the desk. The shorter man says something I can’t hear but the taller man snickers. “He has a lovely smirk” I think to myself.

“Hello, I’m here to pick up a book,” the taller man says.

“Great, library card or I.D. please”

“Erm, well you see I don’t actually know what name Edith put it under and I don’t have a card.”

“Ok, uh but if you don’t have a card and you don’t know the name of the person the book is being held for I really can’t help you,” I was starting to get frustrated while trying rather hard at not letting it show.

“Well can you tell Edith, Ben is here for his book?”

_It was the bashful grin that did you in wasn’t it? Of course you will help the tall, dark, and handsome man named Ben._

“Yes,” I sigh, “one moment please.” I phone Edith; who appears out of nowhere.

“Ben! Hi!” Edith exclaims rather breathlessly, “Your book, I had to make several arrangements for it but you can keep it as long as you like and have it checked out on my card.”

I swear she is thrusting what little chest she has out at him

“But, um if I can have a number to reach you at just in case…” Edith trails off.

_Clearly didn’t think that one through did you now, Edith?_

Nice, tall, handsome Ben looks at her mildly alarmed, “Sure, here is the number for my agent; who can reach me at any time.”

Edith, a bit crest fallen but not to be discouraged, “Yes, this is wonderful! You have an address we can reach you at as well?”

Damn the woman is determined.

I am glad everyone is taller than me at this particular moment, I can watch unobserved at the blatant attempt my supervisor is making to get some guy’s contact info. He looks familiar, I can’t place him or his friend but they do look as if I have seen them before… like T.V. or something.

A book is thrust into my field of view, “You can check Ben’s book out on my account,” Edith says loudly in my ear.

As I take the book from him, it hits you. Oh, I have seen him on T.V. and in the movie and on that charming movie cover tie in for “The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes”. Freaking Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman!

_Say something audible, witty, smart, just something before you catch a fly in your damn mouth._

“Hi,” I stammer.

_Oh yes, sonnets will be sung about your eloquence._

His gaze passes over my shoulder to Edith, who promptly snatches the book out of my hands, “Here is your book back, Ben!”

Edith, who usually looks frumpy is looking a shade of blush above doughty, actually giggles when she hands Benedict his book. The little minx even fluffs her three strands of over colored hair in some attempt to… entice him perhaps?

I look up at her and give her a subtle glare; she gives me an odd smug/shut-it look.

I actually growled at her – audibly.

As heat flushes my face and blood pounds in my ears, I watch the conversation play out above me in that slow motion sort of way. Edith is talking (flirting) with Benedict and Martin; and as I watch them in an odd disembodied way, Benedict and Martin walk away. I snap to with a jolt, more of a slap to the back of the head – _Thank you Edith for that_.

“And you were thinking what exactly?” Edith says with her hands on her hips looking all smug.

I mumble something about an ewok and being under water.

Exasperated, Edith replies, “Just don’t let it happen again.”

Well, you figure, it couldn’t get any worse. Actually it could – he could think you were one of those fanfict writers who just lives in her own little bubble and it exploded today at work. Shit. My head hits the desk with a thud.

“Are you all right dear?” a patron ready for check out asks.

x

On the way home I think of responses for “next time”.

_You are in a Master’s program studying English literature, quote something for heaven’s sake!_

“I had too much coffee” – False, I didn’t have nearly enough coffee today.

“I didn’t get enough sleep” – Sort of true but hardly something that would cause you to growl at someone.

“I was stunned by your radiance!” – Accurate, but really freakin’ creepy.

I start working scenarios out in my head, when I notice the third person on my walk home cross to the opposite side of the street at odd points. In fact the last person almost got hit by a car.

“That’s it! I’ll just tell him I was in a car accident.”

Person number four crosses away from you. “Damn-it.” I realize I was talking out loud the entire time, “Guess, “I plead insanity” is true and only slightly creepy,” I mutter aloud.

Once I reach my small but quaint (or at least I keep telling myself it’s quaint) flat, and let myself in. I decide that the best way to approach “next time” will to pretend that it never happened and that I didn’t actually growl at anyone while my supervisor was attempting to proposition Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. “Because let’s face it,” I say aloud, “in comparison to Edith, I was charming.”


	2. Some days Martin needs a swift kick in the backside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Benedict's POV in which he resists the urge to hit Martin.

Dragging Martin around is tedious. He makes rude and snarky comments, and is always trying to karate chop my neck.

_As if he could really reach it._

On our way to lunch we stop by the library. I made the mistake of wanting a book from a public library, the mistake is called, “Edith”. She’s nice, but my god she doesn’t take a hint.

“I bet she would iron your pants if you asked her to,” Martin muttered.

I snicker. Yes, Edith would do anything for me and that is terrifying. We reach circulation, and a cute brunette sits as the desk.

_Thank God, no Edith_

“Hello, I’m here to pick up a book.”

“Great, library card or I.D. please,” the woman at the desk asks. She’s petite, American, probably here on a scholarship; worst yet she’s just doing her job.

_Damn_

“Erm, well you see I don’t actually know what name Edith put it under and I don’t have a card.”

“Ok, uh but if you don’t have a card and you don’t know the name of the person the book is being held for I really can’t help you,” the woman replied. Her frustration was apparent.

“Well can you tell Edith, Ben is here for his book?”

_Double Damn_

“Yes,” she sighs, “one moment please.” The woman barely had the phone in her hand and Edith appears out of thin air.

“Ben! Hi!” Edith exclaims rather breathlessly, “Your book, I had to make several arrangements for it but you can keep it as long as you like and have it checked out on my card.”

_Is she puffing out her chest?_

“But, um if I can have a number to reach you at just in case…” Edith trails off.

Dear God! “Sure, here is the number for my agent; who can reach me at any time,” I try not to look terrified.

A quick glance at Martin tells me he is enjoying this far too much.

Edith, at first looks rejected but a bit of quick thinking on her part, “Yes, this is wonderful! You have an address we can reach you at as well?”

Determination thy name is Edith.

I explain that the number to reach me, which I gave her the first time, will suffice. She doesn’t back down and I give her credit for that; perhaps I can give her Martin’s address? Nope, Amanda will kill me.

The brunette sits, staring up at us, clearly trying to place Martin and me.

Edith shoves the book in her face and practically bellows in the poor woman’s ear, “You can check Ben’s book out on my account.”

As she takes the book the little light bulb clicks on, realization hits her face – she knows exactly who I am.

“Hi,” she stammers out.

Before she can exhibit any particular fan-girl attributes; Edith snatches the book back out of her hands, “Here is your book back, Ben!”

Edith gave a strangled giggle, or perhaps it was Martin. I quickly glare at him, and look up in time to notice Edith fluff her very thin hair. She gives the woman at the desk a smug look, a bit too triumphant. The woman growls back. I bite back a smile when it dawns on her that her growl was audible and she flushes.

“Well, we do love to help the less educated here; It’s part of a work release program with the disabled,” Edith states.

I stare at her; did the woman actually think that her statement was even close to appropriate?

“Well, thank you for your help. I’ll be sure to return the book in a timely fashion,” I reply, grabbing Martin’s elbow in the process. If I can get him out of here without him speaking we will be fine.

“You have a wonderful day Edith,” Martin pipes up, “And I must say your service is impeccable.”

 _I’m going to kill him_.

Before he can say anything else I manage to remove him from the library.

“Are you trying to get her to attack me?” I sputter out, “That woman would eat me for supper!”

“I’m sure she would eat you every meal of the day if you ask her to,” Martin crudely snickers back, “Speaking of eating, I’m starving. Lunch?”

We make it to the café without any more discussion on the matter, but Martin is determined.

“Edith looked terrifying as usual, but that brunette – she was cute,” Martin says in between bites of sandwich. “Aside from the growl, I’m sure she could be quite nice. She did growl at Edith didn’t she, I didn’t make that up?”

“No,” I reply, “You didn’t make that up, she really did growl at Edith. I might just like her on principle alone.”

“Oh, I just remembered,” Martin, “Once you are done defiling Middle Earth, Smaug, you should check this book out. It’s called “Ents, Elves, and Eriador” by Dickerson” It’s about the ecology of Middle Earth, quite a good read.”

I jot down the title and author, hoping to buy the book or find a different library. We discuss wrapping up the Hobbit and other projects for the year and part ways. 


	3. It's 5pm somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn that pancakes and bourbon are not the only way to spend Shrove Tuesday.

Week six at internship wonder world. We are entering into the lovely season of Lent. 40 days of my mother reminding me of how not Catholic I am. She will call me this Wednesday and ask if I went to any Ash Wednesday services, I’ll say no because I don’t particularly a) know of any catholic church near my flat, b) do not wish to find a catholic church near my flat, c) don’t enjoy getting burnt palms smeared on my head, and most importantly d) I would have to go before work, and there is no way I am walking around all day with soot on my face. Since she won’t like any of those answers I’ll start Lent off right, by lying to my mother about how wonderful the service was at St. Peter’s. I don’t even know if there is a St. Peter’s within a thirty block radius of my flat or the library or in London at all.

It’s Shrove Tuesday, or for the American at heart, Mardi gras. I am longing for my pancake and bourbon dinner I have all planned out for myself. Being stuck at the circulation desk has its perks, until it’s 6pm and you are stuck there for at least another hour and a half and you have a minimum of two hours to wait for your bourbon and pancake dinner. It is dead at the library, even Edith has gone home early (thank God). Ever since Benedict Cumberbatch has graced our doors, Edith has it in her head that she is now something worth looking at. Dear Lord she is not, between the odd floral patterned skirts and the mannish jumpers add over done makeup she is a fright. Although I do give her credit with her hair, honestly she has the thinnest hair known to man, and only (I swear) three maybe five strands on her head; but she rocks fire engine red hair like a pro. Maybe if my hair wasn’t naturally fabulous, I would also rock over colored hair to possibly conceal the fact that I am practically bald.

_Yup, you are so going to hell._

My inner 17 year old self has a charming way of appearing as my conscious.

While looking up all sorts of creative beverages one can make with bourbon, what do eyes spy but Mr. tall, handsome, charming Benedict Cumberbatch walking my way!

_Ok, we had the pep talk; now don’t fuck it up! Remember we are pretending “last time” never happened._

_Right. Deep breath. Smile, but not forced to look like Stich from “Lilo and Stich”. Nothing idiotic, don’t try anything fancy, just “hello”._

“Hi, do you like bourbon?” I ask when he gets to the desk.

_Seriously girl?_

“Uh, yes?” Benedict answers slowly, clearly remembering the growl I emitted the last time we spoke.

He is now a half step back, and tentatively holding out the book. Shit.

“Oh well, I was, that is I mean…” I ramble, taking ahold of the book, “I’m trying to find a creative way to have bourbon tonight with pancakes.”

_Not much better but a complete sentence._

“You could just drink it straight?” He still is looking at me as if I have two heads.

“You’re probably right. Thank you and is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes, I was wondering if you could get, “Ents, Elves, and Eriador”? It’s by Dickerson.” Now he is looking at me as I would think he had two heads.

“Sure, when do you need it?” I ask, trying not to smile. See when one takes English Literature courses in England you may find yourself in a Tolkien Studies class, that was last semester and what was one of my text books? “Ents, Elves, and Eriador”. I could, in theory, lend my personal copy of the book to Benedict Cumberbatch. Even if I never got the damn book back I would be happier than a clam.

“No rush, just something I have been meaning to read,” he replies.

_Alright Girl, do it… take the plunge… deep breath…GO!_

“I have a copy you can borrow.” I close my eyes, then force them back open and try not to look as though I am bracing myself for rejection, which was exactly what I was doing.

“You mean a Library copy or a personal copy?” He doesn’t sound leery, a good sign if you ask me.

“Personal. I took a Tolkien Studies class last semester at UCL and that was one of our textbooks,”[1] I try not to spit out the statement while struggling with the fact I am in a conversation of moderate intelligence with Benedict Cumberbatch.

“Really? Neat, uh yeah if your copy is available to borrow, I’ll borrow yours,” he smiles at me.

_Right now 17 year old me is discovering we are part cheerleader who can do flips._

“Well I can bring it to work with me tomorrow.” I smile back, pretty sure it was more “human” than “Stich” but I can’t promise shit right now.

“Tomorrow it is. What time do you work?”

“I’m in by 9am and leave at 5pm.”

“Is there anywhere we can meet after 5pm? I’m not available till after 5:30.”

“Um I live a half hour walk from here so anywhere between here and UCL.” I may be a bad Catholic, but I’m not stupid. He’s dreamy but not getting my address. Unless he wants it and pancakes… I can make him pancakes.

So remember the time I said there wasn’t a Catholic Church named St. Peter’s between the Library and my flat near University? I lied; it’s an Italian Roman Catholic church that I walk past every day to and from work.

“Oh, how about near St. Peter’s…” I trail off

“Yeah, the one near a nice little pub,” He finishes for me, “Great we can meet there at say 6pm?”

“Sounds great! See you then.” I reply with a bit too much cheer but he doesn’t seem to notice. He says good night and leaves. Thank god I was sitting for that whole conversation.

Oh and can we forget that the only Ash Wednesday service offered in the evening at St. Peter’s is at 6pm?[2] And as long as the guilt doesn’t eat me alive we will be just fine.

I finish my shift in a strange haze of excitement and apprehension. My bourbon and pancake supper all but forgotten. I have a date with Benedict Cumberbatch!

  


* * *

[1] I am not a student of UCL, I in no way claim knowledge of the course offerings there or programs for Master degrees. I have however taken a Tolkien studies class and we did use this as a text book, really good read.

[2] Not Catholic, and live in America. Attendees of said St. Peter’s… sorry.


	4. "Of all the gin joins, in all the towns...she walks into mine..." Casablanca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Benedict asks the lovely brunette out on a date.

Who would have thought that not a single book store in the entirety of London does not sell, “Ents, Elves, and Eriador” a book that not only is about Middle Earth written by one of the most well-known English authors from the 20th century, but is written by an Englishman? Oh wait, not me. What’s even better? My local Library, run by the terrifying Edith, has a copy.

 

_Damn, damn, damn._

 

“Just go in there and ask for the book.” I mutter to myself after walking past the Library several times that day. It’s about 6 ish and I know I can’t really push this off any longer, Edith has called once a week, every week for the past three weeks to make sure I was enjoying my book, if I needed anything else, and quite possibly if I needed anything laundered. If I just return the damn book she will stop calling, I know this; but the woman is terrifying. “Deep breath, you have faced worse. Christ man you have jumped off of a building go inside!”

 

_The pep talk doesn’t help_

 

I open the door and quickly glance at circulation, so far no Edith but I do spy the cute brunette, we are in luck today! As I approach, trying not to look nervous , the brunette takes a deep breath  - hello plunging neck line – and looks up at me.

 

“Hi, do you like bourbon?”

 

“Uh, yes?” odd but I have been asked worse. I step back trying to see if Edith will pop up. I realize Edith reminds me of Yzma from that odd American movie, “Emperors Something other”, which would explain why I am so terrified to be caught near her.

 

“Oh well, I was, that is I mean…” my lovely brunette rambles on, “I’m trying to find a creative way to have bourbon tonight with pancakes.” She smiles tentatively.

 

“You could just drink it straight?”

 

_There is another way to have bourbon?_

 

“You’re probably right. Thank you and is there anything else I can do for you?”

If she takes one more deep breath she will pop out of that damn shirt – don’t make her panic, much.

“Yes, I was wondering if you could get, “Ents, Elves, and Eriador”? It’s by Dickerson.”

_There you did it!_

“Sure, when do you need it?” she smiles faintly.

“No rush, just something I have been meaning to read”

Another deep breath by her, “I have a copy you can borrow.” She closes her eyes for the barest of moments as if bracing herself for something.

“You mean a Library copy or a personal copy?” If she has a copy I don’t ever need to run into Edith again, and I can see her again.

_Note to self – get her name._

“Personal. I took a Tolkien Studies class last semester at UCL and that was one of our textbooks.”

“Really? Neat, uh yeah if your copy is available to borrow, I’ll borrow yours,” I smile at her. She’s smart and pretty? Thank god Martin isn’t here to fuck it up.

“Well I can bring it to work with me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it is. What time do you work?” Please say early.

“I’m in by 9am and leave at 5pm.”

_Good ask her to meet around dinner and you can pretend you’re on a date, because you are too lame to just man up and ask her like a normal human._

“Is there anywhere we can meet after 5pm? I’m not available till after 5:30.”

_Or you can lie to her._

“Um I live a half hour walk from here so anywhere between here and UCL.”

Smart girl; don’t give me your address.

“Oh, how about near St. Peter’s…” she trails off.

“Yeah, the one near a nice little pub,” I finish for her, “Great we can meet there at say 6pm?”

“Sounds great! See you then.”

I say good night and walk out; only after I get back to my flat do I realize I still have the damn book in my hand. I also realize I don’t have her name or actually gave her the name of the pub or what church she is talking about. This is a problem. Sadly the best solution, or rather the quickest (but by no means painless) solution is – Call Martin.

As I pull out my cell, I realize I have no clue why Martin knows all of these random facts about London, but he does.

“Hello”

“Hi, Martin, it’s Ben. Quick question, where is St. Peter’s church between UCL and the Barbican branch Library and to follow what good pubs are nearby it?” I practically spit the sentence out, figuring if I talk fast enough he will think I’m in a rush and not ask too many questions.

“So are you taking Edith or the Brunette?”

Bastard

“The brunette,” I mutter.

“Oh good, so between UCL and the Library is St. Peter’s and you want a pub to take the lovely brunette to? By the way what is her name? Tell me it’s something like Kate, or Katy, oh even better Kitty” Martin starts to chuckle.

“I don’t have her name but I would love to know of two pubs in that area to pick from,” I really don’t need Martin “randomly” showing up.

“You are going on a date with a woman whose name you don’t know? You are really terrible at this you know that?”

“The name of two pubs please,” I’m trying not to lose my patience.

“Try Franks, right off the main drag or the Wet Dog. The names suck but the food is good.”

“Thank you and I owe you one.” I will pay dearly for this.

“Yes you do, I want sordid details after.”

I hang up on him, I hope to god it’s worth it. It will be, it has to be. Actually as long as she wears another shirt like she did today I’ll be good. I feel like an ass for thinking that but…


	5. Ash Wednesday, a wee bit of guilt, and lots of beer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mary makes a call

The longest day of my life to date, I must have looked at my watch every two minutes between 9am and 4:30pm. My neck hurts from how much I kept glancing down at my watch. The best part about all of this; I didn’t know where I was going. I googled “Pub near St. Peter’s” and there must be at least 20 different ones to pick from. Benedict doesn’t have my number or address, and the only way I have to contact him is a number for an agent that probably tucked into the small yet imposing bosom of Edith’s blouse. So I do the only thing I can, I look him up in the patron database.

This is more or less illegal, using the database to gain personal knowledge about an individual; but I don’t care, that damn book is burning a hole in my bag and I really want to meet Benedict for dinner.

I look him up, nothing. I look Martin up, bingo. Now the problem, do I call Martin Freeman and ask for Benedict’s number. Do I even call him at all? Or do I play it safe and look like a creeper and hover around St. Peter’s between 5:45 and 6 and hope that I run into Benedict.

17 year old me says – call and say Edith lost Benedict’s number and we need to reach him regarding his book.

Pragmatic me says – bite the bullet and just hover around the church and pray like you have never prayed before that you don’t miss him.

A quick evaluation of pro’s and con’s, and 17 year old me wins. By 4pm Edith has left for the day, she is a good girl and will be attending an Ash Wednesday service. I will happily burn in hell for the both of us. I pick up the phone and dial.

“Hello” a terse voice answers.

“Uh, yes this is Mary from the Barbican Library and we have you listed as secondary contact for a Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch.” I trail off, realizing that I never believed I would actually dial the number nevertheless be speaking with Martin Freeman, or whoever answers his phone.

“Oh yes, that’s fine Mary, what is this in regards to?” He sounded almost cheerful.

“A book that he took out about three weeks ago, we need it back; and I need to get a hold of him.” I wince, this is sounding desperate.

“Sure, why don’t I tell him for you and have him call you back?” Definitely cheerful.

“Thank you and I am speaking with….”

“Martin Freeman, and don’t worry Mary I’ll let Ben know you called. This is Mary from circulation right?”

“Yes and thank you.” I squeak out, he knows exactly who I am. Damn it.

We hang up, and I stare at the phone.

_That went really well, and you can use that redial trick to get Benedict’s number – go team!_

My conscious does not know when to be helpful and when to shut it.

Ten agonizing minutes pass, the phone finally rings and I practically lunge for it knocking myself out the chair in the process.

_You are certainly the embodiment of Grace Kelly._

“Hi, er, Barbican Library this is Mary speaking how may I help you?” I may have had to drop my voice down a few octaves to not sound breathy – now I sound mannish.

“Yes, this is Benedict Cumberbatch. I am looking for the circulation attendant who worked last night at around 6pm?”

Did he not get the message from Martin?

“Yes this is she, me, I am speaking.” I sound like an idiot.

“Your name again? Since we never were formally introduced, I’m Ben.”

“Hello Ben, my name is Mary.”

_Girl, don’t giggle._

I giggled.

“Hello Mary. Are we still on for tonight?”

“Yes, I wasn’t sure where to meet you. We never discussed that.” Do I tell him I called Martin? Nope, play it cool and if he brings it up blame it on a different Mary.

“True,” he says with a chuckle, “How about we meet at the Wet Dog, bad name but good food, tonight?”

The Wet Dog? How the hell am I supposed to dress for that? Do I show cleavage, leg, bit of both, nothing?

“Ok, the Wet Dog it is,” I hesitate, “What kind of pub is it?”

“Casual, comfy shoes, maybe a smart top?”

“Excellent! See you at the Wet Dog, at 6pm!”

We hang up, quick glance at the clock tell me that I have a half hour to mentally go through my closet and find whatever the fuck a smart top is and cute shoes to match. Thinking ballet flats, with skinny jeans to show off my ass, but no idea for a top.

By 5pm the library is locked up, I spring for a cab and race home. I have exactly 45 mins to shower, dress, and get to a bar with the dumbest name possible, all while looking cute and delightful.

Arrive at bar 5 mins early – check  
Hair in stylish pull back – check  
Makeup done and not smearing after running like a mad woman – check  
Outfit that makes the best of what I have look delectable – triple check  
Have book – check  
Spent entire cab ride home, in the shower, and cab ride to bar listening to my mother tell me how fast I am going to hell because I missed the service – check, check, check, check, and check.

One more quick glance over in a window reflection and I push inside. It’s a nice pub despite the name; I spy Ben in the back and make my way to him.

It sucks how good looking he is. With his perfect hair and face, those eyes I could lose myself in, long limbs, and that smile. Damn I bet he could do some dangerous things with that mouth of his. I take a deep breath and tell myself to calm down before you get to the table.

“Hi,” Ben gets up and makes room for me in the booth, “Thanks for joining me tonight.”

We are sitting close; I can smell cologne and a hint of something else. From this angle I can see how stunning he truly is. He smiles at me, before I can blush any further I hand him the book.

“So here is your book, I put my mailing address in the front cover. Keep it as long as you like.” I need beer or fresh air. I’ll take a beer.

“Thank you,” he takes the book from me and tucks it into his coat.

The waitress stops by our table, we order dinner and beer. I down my first beer and quickly order a second. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I get a little flirty when buzzed. By the time we get our food, I am good and buzzed and getting flirty, like a take-me-to-bed flirty. Thankfully Ben doesn’t seem to mind all that much.

We talk about everything and nothing, our knees keep bumping into each other, and our hands graze each other when we reach for our beer or utensils, and neither of us care. We were alone in our world of two; nothing in that pub could have distracted us from each other. Before long we finish up, and after a bit of haggling on the bill (we split), we make it outside.

I draw in a shaky breath; I want to kiss him so bad. I feel him standing behind me, as I turn his hand grasps my shoulder and finishes my spin and pushes me back. I bump into the wall, quickly looking around to see we made it to the ally between the Wet Dog, and the pub next door, I look up at him right as his hand snakes around my waist and trails down to my bottom. He gives it a squeeze, and as I gasp, he kisses me. A slow, long, and deep kiss; as if he could keep doing that for hours, to be honest I wouldn’t stop him. My left hand reaches the back of his head and draws him closer, while my right grasps his shirt.

I don’t know how long we stood there, kissing with hands drifting, but we reached a point were neither of us felt the ally was the best place to be.

“My place,” I breathe out between kisses, “10 min cab ride.”

He laughs low, laying kiss after kiss along my neck and across my collar bone, “As you wish.” He takes my hand and leads me to the curb, calls for a cab and before we get in gives me one long look. It was simple, I get in that car and if he joined me we knew exactly how that would end. This was the moment, the time to be practical or adventurous; I open the door and motion him to get in first. As I climb in after him a chill shakes me, I’m taking Benedict Cumberbatch back to my flat and we are going to have sex.

Right after I give my address and we take off, I realize every scrap of clothing I own is on my bed. Dishes from three weeks ago are still sitting in my sink, homework crowds the couch, and I’m fairly certain that my bathroom is currently being used as a lingerie drying rack for every pair of undergarment I own.

Great.


	6. The Wet Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edith makes a pass, and Ben gets what he wants

I wake with a start, struggling to remember the dream I was having about a delectable brunette with a plunging neck line and something to do with defiling the non-fiction section.

After a cold shower, and a hot cup of coffee I sit myself down and try to come up with a solution to my problem. I am going on a date with a woman whose name I do not know, to a bar that she does not know of, to exchange a book, all while passing it off as casual. I could call the library, actually have I have to call the library. It’s the only way to directly get ahold of my mystery girl, the question is how to call her and NOT get Edith.

By 11am I start off to the Library, snag a sandwich and water along the way. My plan, sit outside the library and wait for Edith to leave for lunch. It’s more or less fail proof.

_Famous last words_

As I settle in on the park bench of my choosing, put my headphones in and sunglasses on, I sit back and look up at Edith walking right toward me. I glance left and right, shit, there is no one for her to possibly be gunning for.

“Ben! Hi!” Yzma the Librarian says. There goes my appetite. “How funny, great minds do think alike, I have my lunch too!” She holds a lunch pail and bottle of water, sits down next to me and proceeds to pull out her lunch.

Baffled by the situation, I stammer, “Yes, lunch.” Holding my sandwich in toast to her, really good looking bangers and mash. For a crazy broad she does have good taste in food. We eat in silence, oddly companionable.

Once finished, Edith looks at me almost sad, “I hope you are enjoying your book.” Once you get past the frightening makeup she is really quite nice, a bit enthusiastic and determined but nice all the same.

“Yes, and thank you for going through all that trouble; I really appreciate it.” The phone calls less so.

We chat for a few minutes before she goes back to work; and almost as a reminder to not fee too bad for Edith she grabs my hand and whispers in my ear, “I get off of work at 4.” With a wink, she dashes back to the library.

I sit, stunned by her brazenness. I am so giving her Martin’s number. At this point, I don’t care if Amanda kills me.

Finishing my lunch, I get up; might as well walk around and check out The Wet Dog before I tell my lusty brunette where we will be meeting. Martin was right, the Wet Dog while having a terrible name does offer two wonderful things, good food and small intimate booths. As I head back in the direction of the Library I contemplate calling her or just stopping in. At about 4:15 I get a text from Martin:

‘Her name is Mary. She just called me to get a contact for you in regards to a book. Call her’

_Well, that’s good news. The lusty brunette is now the delectable Mary._

A certain tightness in my trousers indicates it will be a long evening.  About 10 minutes of contemplating, I call the library.

A thunk, and a deep female voice answers the phone, “Hi, er, Barbican Library this is Mary speaking how may I help you?”

This has to be a different Mary, she didn’t sound so… well mannish last time.

“Yes, this is Benedict Cumberbatch. I am looking for the circulation attendant who worked last night at around 6pm?”

I have decided to not mention the conversation with Martin. I don’t particularly like the sound of this Mary.

“Yes this is she, me, I am speaking.”

Hm, it is my Mary after all. But to be sure, “Your name again? Since we never were formally introduced, I’m Ben.”

“Hello Ben, my name is Mary.” She giggled. Well tonight should be interesting.

“Hello Mary. Are we still on for tonight?” I wonder if she will mention that she called Martin.

“Yes, I wasn’t sure where to meet you. We never discussed that.”

“True,” I chuckle, “How about we meet at the Wet Dog, bad name but good food, tonight?”

“Ok, the Wet Dog it is,” she hesitates, “What kind of pub is it?”

“Casual, comfy shoes, maybe a smart top?” Please wear something with a plunging neck line.

“Excellent! See you at the Wet Dog, at 6pm!”

We hang up, and I make it back to my flat. My trousers are beyond uncomfortably tight. I glance at the clock, 4:30; that gives me an hour to run, take a cold shower, or think on the lusty Mary with the indecent top. I rub my palm over my erection, at this point I could do all three and still get to the bar early.

Sitting at our booth, I realize that while it seemed a good idea at the time wanking off really just made things worse. Now I get to sit next to Mary in a snug booth for an undetermined amount of time with lots of delightful and indecent images of her running through my mind. She walks in, and the images I conjured the afternoon pale in comparison to her in person. She is wearing skinny jeans and a billowy low cut shirt, god she looks good enough to eat. She gives me a smile that enlightens her face as she walks over.

“Hi. Thanks for joining me.” I get out to let her into the booth. We are sitting close, I can smell her perfume and her strawberry shampoo. I smile at her, right as she trusts the book in my hands.

“So here is your book, I put my mailing address in the front cover. Keep it as long as you like.” She takes a deep breath – hello cleavage.

“Thank you.” I tuck the book into my coat and take a moment to compose myself. No sense in putting the horse before the cart on this matter. We order dinner, Mary downs her first beer and quickly orders a second; I hope she isn’t nervous.

We talk for what seems like hours, probably was no more than two. Like two school kids we slowly make contact with one another; knees bumping, and hands grazing. I’ll admit it was all going according to plan; though I don’t know quite what the plan was. It wasn’t that I was looking for the one night stand; I just knew I wasn’t opposed to it. We finish up, Mary insists on splitting the bill, and we head outside. I knew if I was going to make a move, now would be the time.

I guide her into the ally, turn her around and back her against the wall. Right as she looks up at me, I squeeze her bottom, as she gasps in surprise I take advantage and kiss her. My other hand slowly inches up to her breast under her shirt, her skin like hot satin. She holds my head and clutches my shirt for dear life. Before I knew it both of my hands were up her shirt and molded to her breasts, I was kissing her neck and listening to her moan my name over and over when she finally registered where we were and what we were doing.

“My place, 10min cab ride” she moaned as I kissed her collar bone.

“As you wish,” how could I not oblige her in her time of need? I lead her by the hand to the curb and call for a cab. When the car pulls up and I open the door, I give her one last chance to back out. What was probably seconds, seemed like years as the erection of the century is threatening to burst. She motions me in first, and climbs in after me. I get a good look down her shirt.

_I’m going to enjoy ripping that off of you._

She shudders, I wrap my arm around her and pull her close. I do all that I can to not kiss her senseless right then and there.


	7. To be or not to be – that is the question.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Ben get to her flat. The promised smut.

We sit in silence in the cab. The sexual tension palpable. Do I reach for his hand? Do we get handsy in the cab? Small talk?

_Girl you are in a cab with Benedict fucking Cumberbatch headed to your flat to have sex, what kind of small talk are you planning on having?_

True, very true.

_Perhaps we should be thinking of where to have said sex, because presently only your kitchen floor is open._

Fuck.

We pull up to my place before I have a chance to begin to comtemplate where we would be sitting, let’s not talk about stripping. I crawl out, taking a deep breath and composing myself before turning to him. He hasn’t said a word since we got the cab, is he regretting this? I turn just as the cab pulls away, Ben is standing there, hands in his pockets, and eyeing me like his second dinner.

“So, um, here we are,” I try for cheerful, it comes out squeaky. “Just a heads up – my place is a bit lived in.” I look down, fiddling with my keys. He steps forward, plucks my keys from my hands, and with his other hand pulls my face up. Without so much as a word, he crushes his lips against mine. Hot wet kisses rain down on my face and neck, trailing down across the neckline of my blouse, he keeps backing me up and I realize that we made it in the door. He pulls back only long enough to secure the door behind him and pick me up.

“What number?” he growls, guttural, primal.

“4C,” I stutter out. He takes the steps two at a time, I cling to him. We reach my flat, and he sets me down just long enough to open the door, push inside, and lock the door behind him. He spins me around, presses me against the door.

“Do you like your top?” he whispers in my ear. I just shake my head. “Good,” he barely grinds out. Pinning me to the door with his hips, I can feel his erection. He holds my hands out at my sides, “Keep them there for a moment darling.” His hands drift across my arms to my breasts; he pays homage to them with his hands for several moments, then his hands clutch the neckline of my top and he rips it in half. I gasp, unable to control where my hands go they go to his shirt. Tugging it from his trousers, then I start fumbling with his belt. His hands halt me in my quest to divest him of clothing.

“Not yet. No tonight we will first deal with the amount of teasing I endured at the Library from you. Your damn tops don’t quite know how to handle your breasts, thankfully I do. Only after I have you moaning my name will I permit you to touch me.” His thumbs brush across my nipples, already hard, now so sensitive it almost hurts.

“Benedict,” I moan out.

“You don’t play fair Mary.”

On another gasp my hands resume their quest, only to be halted again as he drew my bra off. I match him and yank his shirt open and force it over his shoulders placing kisses on as much skin as I can. He bends his head to my breast, lavishing it with affection and I hold on for dear life.

If he keeps this up we won’t have to worry about the rest of the flat.

_If he keeps this up our legs won’t work for a week._

Holding on to him as he nips, kisses, and caresses my breasts I vaguely register my pants disappearing, shortly followed by my panties. A cool hand trails down my stomach, as another grasps my bottom. My legs part on their own, and his hand teases my curls.

_Like the “Easy” button from Staples, press here for sex. Let’s keep it focused – he still is half dressed, and at full mast. Even the field girly._

Gathering my wits I reach for his belt, only to meet skin. With more determination, I reach forward with both hands. I grasp at his tapered waist, and then slowly zero in on my prize. A sense of disappointment briefly takes me, that I didn’t get to personally divest him of all of his clothes; but it passes just as quickly. I grasp him with one hand - hard as iron, but smooth like silk; while with my other I cup his sac. I am treated with a groan of pleasure on my breast, but he is not to be beaten, as he draws one of my nipples and bites lightly, causing me to gasp; he takes the opportunity to slip two fingers inside of me, and teases the hardened nub in my folds. With increasing pressure and speed, his fingers dip in and out of me, his thumb pressing harder. I cry out, coming with his fingers buried deep inside; right before my legs give out, he scoops me up and navigates to the couch.

“If by lived-in you mean messy, then yes your flat is lived-in,” his voice rumbles in his chest as I hear books and papers tumble to the floor. He lays me down on the couch, leaving me for a moment as I hear the distinct rip of foil.

With no pretense, he pushes my legs wide and guides his cock to my entrance. He kisses me long and hard, right as he thrust. I meet his pace quickly, my hips rising as he drives into me. Harder, faster we go; I come again, practically screaming his name, and then he follows. His brow furrows, his curly hair erratically falling over his brow as he throws his head back, those perfect lips curl back in an almost snarl; he looks dangerous, violent. That is until he opens his eyes, those piercing blue green eyes. They soften his face, less dangerous more passionate. He falls on his forearms, catching himself before he lands directly on me. I am treated to a beautiful smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and then he gets up. He finds the bathroom and cleans himself.

_Gimme an “S”! Gimme an “E”! Gimme an “X”! What does that spell? SEX! What did we have? SEX! What do we love? SEX – with Benedict Cumberbatch!_

I stifle a giggle. Until I realize he hasn’t come back, I sit up and see him getting dressed.

“Where are you going?” I ask, trying to hide the quaver in my voice.

“It’s getting late, and I have a flight to catch early in the morning. I’m so sorry I have to leave like this.” He truly sounds sorry. He walks over, now fully dressed as if nothing happened; he presses a chaste kiss to my forehead, “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mary.” Then he’s gone.

_Damn-it we didn’t even get to see him naked!_

Shut it!

A tear streams down my face, and soon more follow. I feel cheap, dirty, and discarded. My phone rings, it’s my mother. 11pm here, 6pm back at home – she just got out of her Ash Wednesday service, shit. But suddenly that doesn’t bother me; I am consumed with the fact that I need my mother. I answer the phone on a sob, “Mommy…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok more is coming, my brain ceased function for a bit longer than expected then - boom words on a page.


	8. “...for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison.” (Hamlet Act 2 Scene 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben really mucks up.

My arm is draped across the shoulders of a woman who seems conflicted. Mary’s face is alight with various emotions and expressions, and yet not a word is spoken. I wonder if she knew how little she hides, I wonder if she knew how much I’m going to fuck this all up in a few hours would we still be here.

Do I tell her? I have an early flight, 5am to be precise. Which, if I don’t sleep I have to leave her place by 2am; run home and grab my bag, then be at the airport by 4am.

_You are really looking to fuck this up aren’t you?_

We arrive at her flat; she gets out of the cab and straightens her blouse before turning to face me. She is stunning. I keep my hands in my pockets, torn with the desire to tell her and the need to touch her.

“So, um, here we are. Just a heads up – my place is a bit lived in.” She sounds nervous, and starts fiddling with her keys.

You didn’t even get in the flat and you are about to fuck this up.

I grab her keys and crush my lips against hers. I kiss her face, her neck, the tops of her breasts; all the while pushing her back into the building. I can’t think about what I have to do later this evening, I can only think about her. We get inside and I close the door behind me and scoop her up.

“What number?” I growl, the strain in my pants is beyond painful.

“4C,” she stutters out.

I race up the steps two at a time, practically toss her inside and lock the door behind us. She is panting, I can feel her breasts heaving against my chest, I can’t take any more. “Do you like your top?” I whisper in her ear, she shakes her head, eyes wide. I pin her to the door with my hips, not one of my better ideas, my cock is pressing against her stomach. I hold her hands at her sides, “Keep them there for a moment darling.” My hands move to her breasts, holding them, molding them, loving them. I reach the neckline of her blouse and rip it, literally, off of her. She gasps, and with veracity claws as my shirt; tugging it free from my trousers then making a pass for the belt, I stop her. I’m so damn close to coming in my pants like a school boy is frightening.

“Not yet. No tonight we will first deal with the amount of teasing I endured at the Library from you. Your damn tops don’t quite know how to handle your breasts, thankfully I do. Only after I have you moaning my name will I permit you to touch me.” I brush my thumbs against the already hard little peaks, as if on cue she moans my name. “You don’t play fair Mary.”

_If you were waiting for the opportune moment – that was it. You should have told her then, while you were still cognizant of the fact that you are an ass._

Her hand reach again for my belt, I stop her by unclasping her bra and pulling it off of her. She yanks my shirt open and as she forces it over my shoulders, places searing kisses along my chest. I retaliate in kind, and draw a pert nipple into my mouth and savor the little gasps of pleasure she makes. She clings to me as if holding on for her life. With one hand I tease her breast, and with the other I ease her trousers off and then her underwear, and then remove my own. We stand naked, my head bent to her breasts and her clinging to me. I listen to the mewling sounds, and slowly make my way to the apex of her thighs.

As if registering what was happening, she too reaches for me. Her hands cool on my heated skin. With one hand she strokes me, and the other cups me. I groan with a mix of pleasure and pain. She strokes again and I inadvertently bit her nipple. She gasps, not in pain, but pleasure – thank god. She is so wet that with no difficulty I slip two fingers inside of her. She tries to match the pace my hand sets with her own, tries to match stroke for stroke; but as I tease her and increase pressure and speed her hands fall limply to my hips. My head rests on her shoulders, enjoying the sounds she makes right before she comes. She cries out, clamping my fingers in a fiery vice.

I can wait no longer; I pick her up, and with one foot sweep everything on the couch to the floor, “If by lived-in you mean messy, then yes your flat is lived-in.” I lay her down, and grab a condom from my wallet.

With two steps I’m back to her, and with no preamble I push her legs wide and settle between her legs. I kiss her hard as I thrust into her. We set a crazy pace, hard and fast, as if tonight was our last ever. Her legs wrap around me, drawing me deeper; and when she comes she screams my name and I follow her. Slowly I return to the land of the living, bracing myself on my forearms on either side of her head.

A quick glance at the clock tells me it is now 2:30. I need to go and I have almost literally no time to explain. I smile at her, I hate myself for what I’m about to do. I clean myself in the bathroom and walk right to my clothing, swiping the torn shirt in the process. I can’t go back to her, I would never make my flight and something tells me – in her arms, I would never want to leave, never want to worry about flights, photo shoots, interviews, or filming.

“Where are you going?” her voice catches a little. Damn it Mary don’t look at me with those doe eyes!

“It’s getting late, and I have a flight to catch early in the morning. I’m so sorry I have to leave like this.” Shit, that was a little too casual. I know I sounded sorry but not nearly enough. I’m now dressed, and I walk over to the goddess that will soon hate me more than ever. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Mary,” and I leave.

When I close the door behind me I lean against it, knowing I am now the scum my mother has always told me to never become. I linger a moment longer until I hear a sob from behind the door. It takes all my will power to walk away from the door and leave for my flat.

\-----------

Only a few hours later, I’m seated and we have taken off. I’m headed to LA for an interview and photo shoot. I pull out Mary’s copy of “Ents, Evles, and Eriador” and open up the front cover. There inscribed with far neater handwriting than I will ever poses is her name and mailing address back in the states. As I drift to sleep I wonder, how I can apologize to her. It’s not a question of if I should but how to let her know that I am so damn sorry. I’ll never forget the pain in her eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story does have a happy ending I promise!  
> Also the title is a nod to Benedict's upcoming work in Hamlet


	9. Not all Fairy Tales have happy endings or do they?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been months since Ben left her, will Mary forgive him?

It’s been months now since the “Benedict Cumberbatch One Night Stand from Hell,” I’m back home. Happily finished off my semester and lasted the rest of my internship without killing Edith. The one hiccup aside, I actually had a really good year. I’m getting ready to start my summer job, a “chaperone” to our youth community theater. When I got the job I’ll admit, I got a little twinge in the heart but it passed. I start next week, I have one more week to kick back and enjoy soaking in the sun.

“Mary, you have a package from London. I thought you said you didn’t forward any of your mail, because you didn’t get any mail. It’s from a B. Cucumber-bach, something. Terrible penmanship, I hope you didn’t date him; you know what they say – “Men with bad handwriting can’t cook,” my mother trails off muttering about something, honestly I tuned her out the moment I heard London.

I take the package with trembling fingers, it’s larger than a book but smaller than a shoe box, but it’s from him.

_Nope, we have yet to forgive him for the “fuck and go”. Don’t open it, burn it. In fact spit on it, THEN burn it._

Note to self, find a more mature self-conscious.

I slowly open the package, careful not to tear the return address. What-ever anguish I felt that night and the nights following, and the hate I felt the next day and the weeks following; gone. Inside the package was my book, a letter, a photo, and a blouse. With shaking hands, and tears threatening I set aside the book, and examine the letter, photo, and blouse.

The photo was a picture of Martin Freeman and Edith on what appeared to be a romantic date, Edith looked beyond thrilled while Martin had this murderous look about him. The back read, “it was Amanda’s idea”.

The blouse was a replacement, an exact (down to the size!) replacement of the blouse he ripped. The tears that threatened spilled over and a ridiculous smile broke over my face. I reach for the letter, opening it carefully. It read:

> My dearest Mary,
> 
> I am so sorry for the pain I caused. Truly I had a flight the next morning, it left at 5 am and with the drive to Heathrow… I need to get home. If I stayed any longer at your flat I very much doubt we would have slept at all. Yes, I should have mentioned that prior to getting into the cab, for that I also apologize and offer no excuse for my actions.
> 
> You were, are, wonderful. I wish we could have had something more, but my life does not lend its self to dating beautiful exchange students. I regret only that we did not have more time together.
> 
> Enclosed are three things, one to say “I’m sorry”, one to ask for forgiveness, and one to remember me by. The book is my apology; I did enjoy it and I thank you greatly for lending me your copy. The blouse is to ask for forgiveness, while I don’t regret ripping it off of you I do regret leaving you like I did. And lastly the photo, Martin confessed his little part in our tale to both me and his partner Amanda. Amanda and I put our heads together and set him up on a date with Edith, we both felt Edith was owed that much. So remember me and your time in London with this photo of Martin and Edith on a romantic dinner.
> 
> With affection, Ben

I reread it again and again. The fact that he cared enough to send an apology package was more than I could take, I laughed and I cried, and I felt much better for it.

“Mary? What’s wrong? What was in that package?” my mother does worry so, “Who sent you a shirt, a book, and a picture of a scowling man?”

“Someone who cares Mother, that’s all.”

I tuck all the parts of the gift together, looking fondly at the return address. Perhaps one day I’ll write him, I think to myself as I walk inside after my mother. 


	10. If she would even forgive me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben tries to fix what he broke, and Martin pays for his antics.

After LA my schedule was busy, but not to the point where I could forget what a complete and utter ass I was to Mary. I still had my library book, Edith has called several times informing me that while I can keep it as long as I would like she needs better contact information. I meet Martin one day for lunch, the moment we sit down a deep swell of regret overcomes me.

“So how is _Mary_?” Martin wiggles his eyebrows at me.

Note to self; call Amanda and working on setting up Martin with Edith.

“I don’t know.” I say, far too stern of an expression on my face and it gives me away.

“Oh god, don’t tell me you did something terrible like fuck her and leave?”

I say nothing; the truth is a terrible thing to face, especially with Martin.

“You did, didn’t you?” He asks incredulously, “Jesus, could you have fucked that up any more? No you couldn’t. Seriously Ben I’m shocked.”

I just look at him; I was already feeling like an ass now I feel even worse. I poke morosely at my food, not even bothering to look up now, I mutter, “I want to fix it but I don’t know how.”

Martin sighs, “Come over for dinner tomorrow. Amanda will love to help you, and if she can’t at least the kids will cheer you up.” He genuinely sounds concerned, this isn’t good.

X

The next day I arrive at Martin’s, prepared to face the loving mother hen that is Amanda.

“Ben! Come in, we are almost set for dinner. You know where the wine is, help yourself,” Amanda flutters by carrying a basket of bread.

I fortify myself with a large, perhaps too large, glass of wine and make my way to the dining table. We eat, and then the kids excuse themselves and take off to parts unknown within the house, leaving me with Martin and Amanda.

“Alright, let’s hear it. How bad did you fuck it up?” Martin leans forward, bracing himself on the table with a determined look on his face.

“We went to the “Wet Dog” like you recommended. It was great, good food, nice atmosphere, the music was good. We had a really nice time. We left and started snogging in the ally; she invited me to her flat and…” I trail off, not really wanting to confess it all.

“Let me guess, you shagged her and left to make your LA flight?” Martin finishes helpfully.

“Ben! Please tell me you didn’t?” Amanda is staring at me, stunned.

I flinch as I say, “Yes”.

“Martin told me but I didn’t want to believe it. You do need to fix this and soon.” Amanda fixes me with a stern look. I now know how her kids feel – uncomfortable in the face of certain death.

“But how? I still have that damn library book too, that crazy librarian Edith keeps calling me. I can’t just waltz into the Library and say, ‘hey Mary remember that time I just left you naked on your couch well sorry and here’s that book Edith gave me.’ Yeah that will go over great.”  I take in the look of horror on Amanda’s face and an evil smirk on Martin’s, and register exactly what I had said.

In unison, “You didn’t?!”

_Shit, keep going let’s see how much you can muck this whole thing up._

“Well you didn’t help with the whole Edith thing!” I practically shout back.

“The ‘Edith Thing’, do tell,” Amanda swivels to face Martin.

“Edith is the librarian, she may or may not look like Yzma from “Emperor’s New Groove” and she has been lead to believe that Ben is not only available but interested in her. She spoke to one of the people listed for a contact for Ben, and they may have implied that he likes older women.” Martin says, practically on the floor as he sinks deeper in his chair.

“You’re the reason she propositioned me? You… you…” I sputter, furious. All Amanda does is glare at him.

I don’t speak for several moments, processing the past few months and all of my encounters with Edith. Amanda on the other hand has a sly grin on her face.

“Well you certainly can’t return the book Ben, but Martin can. In fact, Martin I believe you owe that woman lunch if not an explanation. Then we will worry about fixing Ben’s problem, if there is anything left to fix.” She glares at me quickly, then reaches over and pats my hand, “If anything Ben, you will feel much better knowing this woman has turned her attention to someone else.”

Martin looks horrified, and for the first time in weeks it seems, I smile.

X

“It’s settled, Martin will meet Edith at the café round the corner from the Library. He dropped off the book and asked her out,” Amanda says over the phone. “Meet me at the bus stop across the street at noon and we will get a picture.” She sounds far too giddy for a woman who is setting up her husband on a date with another woman.

I meet her there, incognito; both of us went as gaudy tourist. We found a bench with a good view, settled in with our own lunches and waited for Martin and Edith. They got to the café, sat, and ordered. Martin, clearly uncomfortable, kept leaning back; as if trying to get away from Edith. Edith, enjoying herself, was leaning forward and kept grabbing Martin’s hand.

Amanda giggled next to me, “I’ve been filming it. That way we can just pick the still we want.”

I chuckle in response, sobering when I remember what I had in my bag, “Amanda, do you think you could help me find a specific shirt?”

She looks at me questionably, “Men’s or woman’s?”

“Woman’s” I mutter out.

“Do you know what you are looking for?”

Without responding I pull out Mary’s torn blouse, proffering it to Amanda in exchange for the cell phone. She readily hands over the phone and holds up the blouse, all the while looking at me with this indescribable expression on.

“God lord Ben, what did you do, rip the damn thing off of her?”

I flush, not willing to admit the truth. She looks at me, “You ripped this off of her, then slept with her, then left her.” Her tone is now beyond exasperated, “You owe me two full weekends of watching the kids for this. I actually know exactly where to get this shirt. Cad.”

We sit in silence for the remainder of Martin’s date. Right before she leave to meet him, Amanda turns to me, “I’ll buy a replacement for you and send it via post along with the photo. Martin will never let you live this down if he knew.” She smiled and left.

X

A few weeks later I received my package from Amanda, the photo and blouse. I sat back at on my sofa wondering how to handle the information before me. I recently finished Mary’s book, and it was good. Looking at the three things before me, I started composing my letter of apology.

It took about 60 or so tries but I finally had a draft that I was happy with, I pulled out the nice parchment that I bought just for this and put pen to paper.

> My dearest Mary,
> 
> I am so sorry for the pain I caused. Truly I had a flight the next morning, it left at 5 am and with the drive to Heathrow… I need to get home. If I stayed any longer at your flat I very much doubt we would have slept at all. Yes, I should have mentioned that prior to getting into the cab, for that I also apologize and offer no excuse for my actions.
> 
> You were, are, wonderful. I wish we could have had something more, but my life does not lend its self to dating beautiful exchange students. I regret only that we did not have more time together.
> 
> Enclosed are three things, one to say “I’m sorry”, one to ask for forgiveness, and one to remember me by. The book is my apology; I did enjoy it and I thank you greatly for lending me your copy. The blouse is to ask for forgiveness, while I don’t regret ripping it off of you I do regret leaving you like I did. And lastly the photo, Martin confessed his little part in our tale to both me and his partner Amanda. Amanda and I put our heads together and set him up on a blind with Edith, we both felt Edith was owed that much. So remember me and your time in London with this photo of Martin and Edith on a romantic dinner.
> 
> With affection, Ben

I wrapped up everything with care and set the package aside for the evening. I had decided that I would hand deliver it to Mary the next day and beg for an apology.

The next day, I girded my loins so to speak and walked to the library, my peace offering in hand. I make way to the circulation desk and see Edith standing there. Oh dear.

“Ben, hello. Can I help you with anything?”

“Uh yes, I was wondering if Mary was working today?”

“I’m so sorry; she left a few days ago. She finished her semester last week. Are you sure there is nothing I can help you with?”

I shake my head in disbelief, here I was ready to make a public spectacle of myself and the infuriating woman has the nerve to go home. I give Edith my regards and walk back home, unsure as to how I am going to get the package to Mary, until I remembered she wrote her address in the book.

Turning left at the corner when I usually turned right, I headed for the post office instead of home. I ripped open my carefully wrapped package, scrawled out her address, and hastily wrapped it again and without even thinking about it wrote my personal address for the return. I paid the postage fee, handed it off, and felt a weight that I didn’t even knew I carried lift off my shoulders.

I don’t know if she will ever forgive me, or if she will even respond. I only hope that she will. 


	11. Epilogue: We are ships passing in the night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending for Mary and Ben

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, I enjoyed writing it.

Years later

A woman dressed in a navy blue silk blouse and pink skirt suit, steps down from the doors of the British Library. Her brown hair, pinned expertly back, highlights her face. She tugs a bit at her blouse, muttering to herself about a troublesome bosom. She halts quickly, looking in her brief case, standing in the middle of the side walk; completely engrossed in her task of searching her case.

A tall, thin yet muscular man with angular features and curly brown hair walks purposefully down the sidewalk. His long coat fluttering behind him exposing an expensive and stylish green button down; his focus on his smart phone, not on the woman he is about to collide with.

Neither look up, neither hear the shout from the pedestrian trying desperately to warn either of them of the collision about to occur. His shoulder nocks her arms, jarring her case lose. His cell drops with a clatter, and her case falls scattering pens and various items. Both apologize without looking, reaching down to collect the fallen items. His hand brushes hers as they reach for the same item, they both look up at the same time and shock is apparent on both of their faces.

“Mary?”  
“Ben?”

Said at the same time, with disbelief; eye’s searching each-others, as if trying to determine if the other is truly standing before them.

They stand, straighten their clothing. Shy smiles cross each of their faces.

She extends a shaking hand, “My card.” With equally trembling fingers he takes it and proffers one of his own.

In stereo they say, “It’s good to see you!” and in stereo they respond, “You look great.”

Uncertainty creeps into the situation, both have to go and neither wish to leave.

“I’ll call you, but right now I have to go.” She says, gesturing with her case. He is rendered speechless, by her presence, her poise, her beauty; he can only nod in response.

They part ways, both wondering if they truly will see each other again. She had moved to London with the intent of finding him, to see him one last time. She knew London was big, and the probability of seeing him in passing was next to impossible but it was worth the risk.

\-------------

Hours later, a couple sits intimately in a booth of the “Wet Dog”; one dressed in a pink skirt suit, the other in a green button down.


End file.
